TO THE SWALLOW by ANACREON

I

DEAR Bird, thy tunes and sportings here,
Delight us all the day;
Who dwell'st amongst us half the year,
And then art forc'd away.

II

Thou canst not Winter's fury bear,
But, cross the Southern Main,
To warmer Afric dost repair,
Till Spring return again.

III

But, ah! no force of storm, or art,
Drives Cupid from my breast,
He took possession of my heart,
And in it built his nest.

IV

This Bird there hatches all his young,
Where each by instinct led,
Learns of its sire his tricks and song,
With shell upon its head.

V

And ere these Loves have plum'd their wings,
They multiply apace,
For as one plays, or cries, or sings,
It propagates its race.

VI

Now their confusion's grown so loud
It cannot be exprest:
I've such disturbance with the crowd,
They give my soul no rest.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!

Other Poems of Interest...